Chapter 16 Nova
NOVA
Iread the message.
Again.
It’s short. Just a few lines. No punctuation. No fluff. Just him.
You okay? I’m around. I’ll wait.
I stare at it until the words blur, until the comms screen times out and the glow fades into black glass. My reflection looks back at me—tired eyes, pulled-back hair, uniform crisp but hollow. I look like I’ve got it together. Like nothing rattles me.
It’s a lie.
I haven’t answered him in three days.
I tell myself it’s for the best. That distance is the only thing holding this mess together. That if I let even one thread unravel, the whole thing falls apart.
Still, when I close the message without replying, I feel like I’ve just snapped something inside me.
The hallway outside the comms room is mercifully empty. A few cadets drift past, eyes bleary, caffeine-fueled. None of them meet my gaze. That’s fine. I don’t have it in me to pretend I’m approachable.
The moment I step into my office, I bury myself in evaluations. Twelve flight logs, four personnel reports, a backlog of simulator analytics that could drown a less experienced officer.
It’s exactly the kind of noise I need.
Numbers don’t judge. Paperwork doesn’t ask why you’re ghosting the only person who’s ever looked at you like you were more than medals and directives. Ink and data don’t kiss the curve of your neck in the middle of the night and then fall apart in the daylight.
Still.
He’s everywhere.
In the way the simulator footage auto-queues to the last pilot profile I watched—his. In the flight patterns I review, noting a spike in aggression that lines up too perfectly with my silence. In the damn empty chair across from my desk that still holds the ghost of his cocky smirk.
I push it all aside and dive into debrief summaries.
Halfway through the fourth one, I hear them.
Voices.
Just outside the open office door.
“...saw him almost clip Yoris in that dive. What the hell was that?”
“Think he’s cracking?”
“Or distracted. You hear what Swan said? He’s been late twice. That’s not Kaz.”
I don’t move. Don’t blink.
“Heard Trozius tore into them both, but Kaz got the worst of it. Didn’t even argue.”
“He’s slipping. You don’t go from top scores to mid-tier unless something’s eating you.”
Their footsteps fade, mercifully. My fingers dig into the edge of the desk.
I should’ve stepped in. Told them to get back to drills. Snapped their chain of gossip like I’ve done a hundred times before.
But I didn’t.
Because every word rang true.
I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.
Then I do the worst thing I can possibly do.
I open the sim logs.
I tell myself it’s for evaluation purposes. A review. Standard protocol.
But I don’t look at his scores.
I look at him.
The way he moves in the cockpit—tight, sharp, urgent. Like he’s trying to outrun something that keeps clawing at his six. He doesn’t fly like the Kaz I know. He flies like a man unraveling. Like the edge of the void is a welcome alternative to whatever he left behind on the ground.
He checks his wingmates constantly, even when he’s falling behind. Protects them like it’s instinct. No hesitation. No hesitation until he pulls too hard, too fast, and overshoots a run that should’ve been textbook.
I watch that clip three times.
Then I close the sim.
There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go down.
That night, I can’t sleep.
Not even a little.
I sit on the edge of my bed, robe pulled tight, hair loose and wild around my shoulders. My quarters feel too quiet. Too neat. Too wrong.
My comms ping once.
Kelsey.
I debate ignoring it. Then sigh and hit accept.
Her face fills the screen—half-shadowed, grinning like she’s already caught me doing something scandalous.
“Look who finally decided to show signs of life,” she says.
I try for a smile. Fail. “Been busy.”
“Uh huh. And I’ve been celibate. Don’t lie to me, Nova.”
That gets a breath of amusement. Barely.
She squints at me. “You look like crap.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you finally do it?”
My spine stiffens. “Do what?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know what. Tall, dark, and snarky. The flight risk with the stupid hair. Did you finally—”
“Don’t.”
She pauses. The grin fades.
“Nova.”
I shake my head. “I can’t talk about it.”
“That bad?”
“No. That… good.”
Kelsey’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “You fell.”
I don’t answer.
“You don’t fall for people. Not really.”
“I know.”
She leans closer to the camera. “So why do you look like someone just carved you open with a maintenance spanner?”
“Because I can’t do anything about it.”
“Because of the rules?”
“Because of the stakes. Because it’s my job to lead, and he’s—he’s not just a risk. He’s the risk.”
“Nova—”
“I can’t lose everything I’ve worked for because I couldn’t keep my feelings in check.”
Kelsey studies me. “Then why does it sound like you already did?”
I close the comm without saying goodbye.
Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling until it blurs. My skin remembers his touch like muscle memory. My throat aches with words I never said.
I could reach out.
Just one message.
I don’t.
Because I’m afraid he won’t answer. Worse—because I’m afraid he will.